


Cuique Suum

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [9]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Healthy relationship with open and honest communication, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Alec Lightwood, M/M, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Pandemonium Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 04:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: "Do you think I'm boring?"The question is devastating to him, but Magnus knows exactly how to respond.





	Cuique Suum

**Author's Note:**

> For all intents and purposes, I'm supposed to be working on the next big installment of the main Dux Bellorum series. Instead, I randomly thought of this the other day and had to write it.
> 
> Title translation: "to each his own."

He can feel Alec’s eyes on him. Their weight is equal parts relaxing and invigorating; Magnus loves how the feeling washes over him with all the strength of a tidal wave and all the comfort of a lover’s embrace. There’s a lightness in him, stemming from the sensation tickling along his skin like sunshine. A responding grin curls at the edges of his lips, even as he carefully applies eyeliner. Regardless of the experience he has doing his own makeup, he very nearly pokes his own eye out; his mind is too preoccupied with the thought of his Alexander taking up all his poor brain’s processing capacity.

Magnus wants to turn back to look at his shadowhunter, wants to flick his gaze to where he knows it will lock with Alec’s in the mirror before him. But that would violate some unspoken agreement that exists between them. It is hardly the first time that they’ve done _this_ – Magnus sitting at his vanity, applying his makeup in the charmingly mundane way, while Alec watches him from the bed – and it will certainly not be the last, but Magnus has learned a few cues from Alec over the months that they’ve been together.

For all that Alec has some fascination with watching Magnus – whether it be applying makeup or brewing potions or performing _tai chi_ in the mornings – the early moments of their relationship had been riddled with darting eyes and the tendency to snap his gaze away as soon as Magnus made it apparent that he had noticed. While they have certainly grown closer since then and Alec has learned to be more comfortable in his own skin, it is a path that has been filled with far too many steps back.

So, for some time, Magnus had simply made it a habit not to outwardly acknowledge the younger man’s lingering glances. Now that Alec is no longer ashamed of looking, his focus is oftentimes single-minded and intense enough to leave Magnus a quivering pool of barely held together emotions. He can’t afford to meet Alec’s endlessly curious and devoted gaze, not when he’s applying some of his favorite mascara and doesn’t want to risk his makeup running.

Typically, they’re both just fine with this little routine of theirs. Sometimes, Magnus will let his own eyes flicker to meet Alec’s and they’ll share a similarly sappy smile. Other times, they will chat mindlessly about their days, or some gossip either of them (most often, Magnus) heard from the Shadow World grapevine. Magnus’ favorite days are when Alec inches closer and hooks his chin over the older man’s shoulder, asking endearingly analytical questions about the different palettes and tools that Magnus has gathered over the years.

Today, however, is a heavy day. Alec had dragged himself back from the Institute and, after their customary greeting of a chaste hug and kiss, had resolutely remained silent. The most Magnus has managed to coerce out of him in the last couple hours is a handful of clipped, monosyllabic answers. Magnus loves his darling Alexander, more than he ever believed was possible, but he is also intimately acquainted with the fouler moods his dear love is susceptible to. Alec can be equal parts surly and compassionate, abrasive and soothing, harsh and forgiving. All in the span of a mere hour.

Magnus doesn’t begrudge Alec his moodier days; _gods above_ , Magnus knows that he can be just as unpredictable and volatile when he gets worked up. It helps, as well, that Alec is all but incapable of hiding his frustrations with the object of said feelings. While he’s been particularly reclusive and stubbornly standoffish since getting home, he also hasn’t snapped or lashed out at Magnus. In fact, his poor boyfriend has been following Magnus around the loft like some odd, maddeningly endearing combination of a shadow and a puppy for most of the night.

He’s already tried drawing an explanation out of his love, only to receive nothing but a characteristically brusque and waspish _‘no’_ for all his efforts. The clear rejection stings and Magnus has to remind himself that it isn’t indicative of Alec rejecting _him_. Instead, he forces himself to keep calm and allow Alec this bit of independence, even as he yearns to draw his darling close and just spoon in bed until all of the barely contained frustration finally leaks out. His Alexander is perhaps the cuddliest person Magnus has ever had the absolute privilege to know; the younger man is often the instigator of their snuggle sessions, whether by asking or simply latching onto the warlock. But Magnus has learned (the hard way, nonetheless) that when Alec is in one of his darker moods, he’s far more likely to flinch away or draw back from any sort of physical contact.

So. Here Magnus is, going through his pre-Pandemonium ritual and dutifully giving Alec both the emotional and physical distance that his boyfriend has silently demanded. He’s been looking forward to visiting his club all day, barely managing to survive mind-numbingly dull client meetings and hours of sitting at his apothecary desk working on ancient translations. It’s been far too many weeks since he last had the time or energy or incentive to return, but now he has the excuse that some important business deals need to be discussed over drinks and, of course, he will need to unwind afterwards by dancing the night away.

Not for the first time, Magnus marvels at just how _freeing_ his relationship with Alexander is. He’s never really been the sort to consider relationships a ball and chain weighing him down, but, admittedly, many of his past lovers have definitely attempted to make it into that. Camille used to go to clubs with him, only to abandon him and seek out some third-party to satisfy her for the night, and plenty of others lashed out and snapped at him for dancing with others, always anticipating some form of infidelity, always forbidding him to enjoy the beat of the music and the satisfying hunger in the eyes of people he would never bother to engage with.

Alexander isn’t like that. He is not possessive to the point of controlling, not jealous to the point of cruelty, not distrustful to the point of accusation. While the shadowhunter has absolutely zero love for Pandemonium and the wild crowds that flock there, he has never once given any indication that he disdains Magnus’ proclivities towards parties and the like. They may certainly enjoy each other’s company to the point of nausea (according to some of their close friends and family), but they are not the sort of couple that needs to do _absolutely everything_ together. So Magnus’ trips to Pandemonium have never been a point of contention between them, as their trust in each other has always assured that Alec neither fears nor expects duplicity; which is all well and good, as Magnus can’t even fathom hurting Alexander in such a way.

Tonight feels different. Maybe it is the proverbial dark cloud hanging over his love’s head, maybe it is the disquiet that stirs in Magnus’ blood and draws him to the loud oblivion that the club can offer, maybe it is in that nebulous distance that still occasionally pushes the two of them achingly far apart. He doesn’t know, but his excitement from earlier in the day has rotted away into a hollow sort of trepidation. Much as he would enjoy dancing until his toes pinch in his shoes, Magnus would far prefer just spending the night with a wonderfully content and cuddly Alexander.

But Alec has insisted that Magnus not cancel his plans, that Magnus spend this one night away from the clients and contracts and demands of his position and just let himself get lost in the pounding of too-loud music and the grinding of too many bodies. Perhaps what Alec needs is just some time alone, comfortably isolated in the loft, away from the pressures of the Institute or his people or even his boyfriend.

He’s so lost in thought that his eyeliner pencil abruptly jams into his eye. It’s only his countless years of enduring unspeakable pains that allow him to bite back the instinctual flinch and yelp from the stinging in his attacked eyeball. His eyes water dangerously and he has to open them comically wide to prevent any tears from ruining his hard work. Magnus has just enough of a mind left to fervently hope that Alec has somehow miraculously not noticed this ridiculous example of clumsiness.

There’s no sound from behind him, where his Alexander is settled on the bed. No huffs of fond exasperation, no rumbles of mercifully stifled laughter, no shifting of the sheets from Alec’s shaking shoulders. The continued silence worries him more than any unflattering reaction would, and Magnus risks flicking his teary-eyed gaze to where his shadowhunter’s reflection rests in the corner of his vanity mirror.

Not for the first time, not for the last time, Magnus is struck breathless by this gorgeous man that he’s been allowed to call his own. He’s on the bed, wearing nothing but sinfully thin sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that leaves little to the imagination. He’s sitting cross-legged, elbows planted on his knees, hands twisting in his lap. His shoulders are slumped and his back is bowed and his head is tilted down. It’s a tragic sight, seeing his love looking so utterly defeated, and yet a part of Magnus can’t help but feel the stirring of awe that it inspires within him.

The deceptively delicate and smooth lines of his posture remind Magnus of a sculpture lovingly crafted by the late Rodin. That peculiar but captivating contradiction of corded muscle and inherent movement, all contained within the solemn stillness of a single moment. Magnus wishes that he could sketch this scene out, wishes that he had the way with words necessary to write a poem about it. Wishes that, somehow, he had a manner in which he could appreciate the beauty and the unbridled love that this man brings into being.

But, regardless of how endearing it is to see this infinitely soft side of his Alexander that only _Magnus_ is ever privy to, it is still impossibly painful to know that something heavy has settled over his darling. It brings an ache to his chest and a sting to his eyes that has nothing to do with the accidental misuse of his own makeup. He wants nothing more than to speak up, to collapse onto the bed and draw Alec into an embrace, to press kisses to his forehead and murmur sweet nothings until all of that loathsome tension finally melts away.

As if – somehow, inevitably, undeniably – Alexander can sense the worry and apprehension curdling in Magnus’ stomach, the young man finally speaks up. A single word, a single _name_ , breathed out as if it’s the only thing worthy of being said. A prayer, a plea, a promise. Some sacred entreaty that exists only between _them_.

 _“Magnus,”_ he calls.

It’s the sign that Magnus has been waiting for all night. He knows, intimately, what that tone of voice means. He can hear the silent acceptance, the quiet request for comfort, the subtle _hurt_ and _fear_ and _pain_ that Alec always tries so valiantly to hide from the world. This isn’t his Alexander breaking, isn’t his darling giving up; rather, it’s the sound of him finally sorting through the maelstrom of his emotions enough to know that he needs someone to help pull him out of his own head.

And, of course, Magnus will always be there when Alexander calls.

“Yes, darling?” he asks, gentle but steady as he knows Alec needs. The warlock doesn’t turn around to face his boyfriend, not yet. Instead, he focuses on Alexander’s reflection in the mirror, watching how he picks at his nails, digging them into the tender skin around his cuticles. Magnus wants to grab his hands and stop the incessant twitch of his fingers. He sees the emotions flicking rapid-fire across his lover’s face, observes the process in his dark eyes as Alec clinically analyzes each individual emotion and files them away in his mental cabinets. The young man’s mouth opens on several occasions, only to twist and close once more.

Eventually, he draws in a fortifying breath that seems to expand and fill his very body. “Do you think I’m boring?” is what slips out, whisper-quiet as if it is some shameful secret.

Magnus just barely manages to stop the initial flinch that the question inspires and he has to draw in a breath of his own just to stop his own composure from breaking. But he doesn’t even attempt to stop his instinctual need to stand from his vanity and step closer to Alec’s side. He gracefully settles himself down on the bed and folds himself into a cross-legged position which mirrors the nephilim’s, just a few sparse inches separating their knees from touching. He places his hands on his knees, palms up, an offering for whenever Alec chooses to accept it.

“Why would you think that, angel?” Magnus forces himself to ask, simple and calm and resolute. He would personally rather just profusely deny any such claims of his Alexander being _boring_ , and yet he knows that the gravity of the situation surpasses such fleeting reassurances.

Alec, for his part, merely shrugs. Some blasé and nonchalant motion that completely contradicts the downturn of his head and the shimmer of tears that swim in his beautiful hazel eyes. “Nothing,” he mumbles, entirely unconvincing.

“It’s not nothing,” the warlock immediately refutes, not unkindly but firm enough that Alec knows he can’t take the words back. “What’s wrong, Alexander?”

“It’s just-” he starts, only to cut himself off and tilt his head to the side. He pulls his hands in closer to his chest, tries to tighten his legs until he can draw everything back into himself. It’s a retreat that Magnus doesn’t allow, not without carefully scooting closer so that their knees bump. “Jace and Izzy said something. It’s- they- it’s stupid,” he deflects, attempting to drag a hand across his face as if he’s scratching at his cheek and not rubbing away the tears that threaten to escape. The movement isn’t lost on Magnus, not with how attentively his gaze is trained on his angel.

“Darling, if it’s making you upset, then it isn’t stupid,” Magnus does his best to sound reassuring, even as Alec tries to pull away. “Will you please talk to me?” It doesn’t matter if he’s beginning to sound desperate; he just needs some confirmation that Alec isn’t going to try and avoid this entire situation, isn’t going to continue insisting that Magnus go party his night away in Pandemonium while he remains here, wallowing in his own misery.

“Can I go with you?” he finally spits, words halting and stumbling, and then he winces back as if he hadn’t actually expected to say the words. But once they’re out there, hanging in the stifling quiet between them, Alec hurries to continue, to fill the empty spaces. “You can pick out my outfit and do my makeup and we can dance as long as you want. I don’t care.”

It’s a bold-faced lie. Magnus knows that even without the worryingly desperate tone of voice or the increasingly watery eyes. He knows because they’ve already tried doing such things. Alec may like having Magnus’ opinion on clothing, but he despises having his outfit picked _for_ him. And while he loves how makeup looks on Magnus, he can hardly tolerate how it feels on his own skin. And Alec has proven to be a good dance partner in more formal settings or in the comfort of Magnus’ living room, but _grinding_ anywhere near a bunch of strangers makes his skin crawl. Magnus _knows_ all of these little details about Alec, but he doesn’t know why the boy is suddenly pushing for this.

“Oh, darling,” Magnus coos soothingly, just barely managing to stop the hand that yearns to cup Alexander’s cheek. “I know that you hate going to Pandemonium. And I don’t know what this is about, but you know that I would never want you to force yourself to enjoy something just because _I_ do.”

Alec looks down at his lap, where his fingers are picking uselessly at a loose thread of his sweatpants, and Magnus realizes that he’s making some sort of headway in the grueling process of chipping away Alec’s walls. Only so much more pressure is needed before it all crumbles and finally clears the air between them.

“I just-” Alec stutters, before licking his lips and taking a breath. “I just don’t want you to get bored of me.”

It feels as if Magnus has been sucker-punched right in the stomach and he very nearly sways from the sudden blow. His heart is all but still in his chest and his head is so disoriented by the very notion that he sits there with his mouth gaping open like he’s some complete fool. He doesn’t even know what to say, can’t even seem to _fathom_ that Alec genuinely believes such things. The silence must drag on for too long, because Magnus sees the exact moment that Alec’s body tenses and he attempts to pull even _further_ back.

Magnus reaches out and latches on before Alec can flee from the bed, wrapping both of his hands around one of the shadowhunter’s. Even in his state of confusion and near-panic, Magnus forces his grip to relax after his initial knee-jerk reaction calms, loose enough that Alec can pull away if he absolutely needs to, but tight enough that the pressure can ground him. After several painfully strained seconds in which Magnus fears that his boyfriend will run away regardless, Alec finally eases back in place.

His head is still tilted down and Magnus delicately lifts one of his hands to trace the line of Alexander’s clenched jaw, until his fingers rest under his chin. Oh so gently, Magnus pushes up, more of a suggestion than any sort of obligation. Alec reluctantly allows it and when he meets Magnus’ gaze his eyes are red from holding his tears at bay, and the very sight of it shatters Magnus’ heart.

He wants to simply refute Alexander’s preposterous claim, but he knows how ineffective it would be to soothe any concerns. If Magnus hopes to make any progress, he needs to let Alec lead the direction of this conversation. So, he gives his dear heart a starting point, an opening, an opportunity to take whatever he needs from Magnus. He would give anything to his darling angel, perhaps even everything, if only Alec would learn to ask.

“Where is this coming from, my love?” he wonders, cradling Alec’s jaw and stopping him from averting his gaze. And then he resolves himself to remain quiet, to let Alec sort through his own emotions and thoughts without Magnus’ needling input.

The warlock watches the flicker of expressions across Alec’s face, the twist of his cupid-bow lips and the scrunch of his nose as he attempts to order his scattered mind. A stray tear manages to escape the shadowhunter’s tightly-leashed control and Magnus’ thumb brushes it away with a barely audible coo. It’s this gesture which finally seems to break past his Alexander’s last vestige of distance, and the young man sags until his shoulders slump and only Magnus’ hands against his chin manage to hold his head up.

His angel shrugs helplessly but latches onto the ends of Magnus’ robe, where it’s draped on his knees, and pinches the silky material, running the pads of his fingers over it. “Well, it’s just-” he starts, only to bite his bottom lip and try again. And, _finally_ , the floodgates open. “Jace and Izzy were giving me hell about not going to Pandemonium with you guys tonight and then I just started thinking- I don’t like clubbing or partying, I’d rather just stay home and read or do some stupid fucking _jigsaw puzzle_ and just-” his voice is trembling, a watery self-deprecation slipping out and devastating Magnus with each added word.

A shudder rattles through Alec’s entire body and it’s only Magnus’ continued effort to gently wipe away unwanted tears that seems to hold him together. “With everything that you’ve seen and done and the people you’ve known, I don’t - how could you even want to spend time with _me_?” It’s with his final word that his voice finally cracks, a sob erupting before Alec can even hope to stifle the noise.

Magnus is moving without a second thought. He slides his hands from his Alexander’s jaw to the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling him down into an embrace. One hand smooths down his angel’s back, rubbing circles against his threadbare t-shirt; firm pressure, holding Alec close to himself, grounding him even through the quivering of his shoulders.

After his first initial sob, Alec doesn’t permit himself the relief of tears. The boy buries his head at the juncture between Magnus’ head and shoulder, but there is no telltale wetness seeping into the warlock’s silk robe. Magnus can feel the trembling that wracks through his Alexander’s body, can feel the tension in all of the muscles of his back, and yet no sob or wail escape. The shadowhunter’s agony is silent and self-contained, just as Magnus fears it has been for most of his life.

“Shh, angel,” he hushes gently, lips brushing the soft hairs at Alec’s temple with each movement. “I’m right here, my dear heart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alexander doesn’t hug back – a fact which is quite worrisome to Magnus, given the younger man’s propensity for mimicking an exceptionally cuddly octopus more often than not – but eventually he does allow himself the comfort of bringing his arms up and clutching at the fabric bunched around Magnus’ waist. His fingers pinch and run over the material in a repetitive manner, a single little self-soothing gesture that Alec has allowed for himself.

Eventually, after some indeterminate amount of time, Magnus’ back begins to hurt from their position. He knows that Alec can’t be doing much better, so the warlock eases them down until they’re laying diagonally across the bed; his Alexander doesn’t protest the change and, once they’ve settled on their sides facing each other, the shadowhunter finally wraps his arms all the way around Magnus, pulling them infinitely closer. It feels like coming home.

Between their tangled embrace and Magnus’ continuous string of murmured endearments, the quivering of Alec’s shoulders slowly subsides. Magnus tightens his hold on him, refusing to let the poor boy go in this moment of vulnerability, and his Alexander seems to accept it by sagging bonelessly against the older man.

“Sorry,” the word is croaked out, some broken little thing that fractures the quiet between them.

Magnus doesn’t permit the word to hold any weight, not now. He runs a hand through Alec’s messy hair and settles it at the nape of his neck, craning his own head just enough to plant a lingering kiss to his darling’s forehead. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for, Alexander. Not for having insecurities, and not for needing comfort,” he insists, resolutely shutting down anymore protests that Alec may be attempting to formulate.

The platitude seems to do nothing but rattle Alec to his core and he huffs out what Magnus is sure must be disagreement. “You enjoy going to Pandemonium,” he mumbles, voice mostly muffled against Magnus’ own shoulder. “And I _want_ you to enjoy it,” the shadowhunter continues, as if he needs to reassure _Magnus_ in all of this. “But I don’t.”

The sentiment reminds Magnus a little too uncomfortably of their conversations about _differences_. They’ve always seemed to consider the question in light of being a warlock and a shadowhunter, rather than all the discrepancies that can exist between an extravagant extrovert and a grumpy introvert. In comparison to some of the difficulties of their relationship, Magnus finds this dilemma almost mundane in its magnitude. But, clearly, it’s something that’s been bothering Alec for some time, and clearly it’s a matter that needs to be addressed.

“My beloved Alexander, we don’t have to enjoy all of the same things all of the time,” he starts, pulling back from their desperate embrace just enough that he can lean his forehead against Alec’s and look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “I enjoy clubbing and fashion week. You enjoy hunting demons until the middle of the night and willingly going on ten-mile jogs in the morning.” The levity of his tone finally draws a half-reluctant, huffed out laugh and the sound is better than any grand symphony Magnus has listened to.

“And, I daresay, we enjoy our time together far more than most couples,” Magnus continues, not even giving Alec the chance to argue. “Whether we’re walking through museums or sky-diving, going to the opera or scuba diving, it doesn’t matter. Your intellectual side and your adrenaline-junkie side are equally enjoyable to me, Alexander.”

He thinks that he’s finally making some headway here, finally getting through that adorably thick head of his stubborn boyfriend. But, of course, his dear beloved shadowhunter feels the need to keep up his protests, even in the face of Magnus’ absolutely flawless argument.

“That’s different,” Alec mutters petulantly. Magnus doesn’t see any difference, but it’s not his opinion on the matter which is being drawn into question. “That’s when we’re going places and actively doing things. _Most_ of the time, I just want to come home and spend the night curled up on the couch, watching dumb mundane TV or reading a book. That’s _boring_ ,” he insists, all of that admirable perseverance channeled towards hating himself for some unfathomable reason.

Magnus outright scoffs at the very notion, receiving a half-joking scowl for his troubles. “And who told you that, my love? Your dear, beloved siblings?” He, of course, already knows the answer, but he waits for Alexander’s grudging nod of confirmation. “No offense to Jace or Isabelle, but they are hardly experts. They’re still too preoccupied with the whole _‘live fast, die young’_ mentality that so many people their age are prone to.”

“I’m their age, too,” Alec grumbles mutinously.

“Yes. You are,” Magnus agrees, sobering immediately. He takes in the dark bags under his boyfriend’s eyes and the crow’s feet that already threaten to wrinkle at the corners of his eyes and the tension that exists as a wholly separate entity within Alec’s muscles. Twenty-three meager years, and already his darling Alexander has been forced to bear too much. “But the difference is that _you_ have always been the one shielding them. _You_ grew up years before they ever had to, Alexander. You don’t need wild parties and a new handful of strangers to entertain you every night; you need stability and commitment. That’s who you are, darling, and I love you _because_ of it, not _despite_ it.”

They’re pretty words, a well-spoken sentiment, if Magnus is to say so himself. He’s rather inordinately proud of them, for all-too-often it’s Alexander who is stealing his breath away with deceptively simple declarations of unconditional love. It’s about time that Magnus returns the favor.

But, rather than reassurance like Magnus so desperately wants to offer, it seems to draw Alec back down into the whirlpool of self-deprecation. He looks away, no longer able to meet Magnus’ imploring gaze, before he swallows thickly and opens his mouth. No doubt to break Magnus’ heart even further. “Then why do _you_ need to go out so often?”

It’s not an accusation. It _isn’t_. It’s a simple question, a request for an explanation, a plea for understanding. But Magnus has to swallow back his own first reaction and remind himself of that. It’s more difficult than he rightly thinks it should be.

“I don’t,” he admits thoughtlessly. And the idea abruptly hits. He _doesn’t_ need to go out. Not so often, nowadays. The stark revelation causes not a small amount of panic; when had his lifestyle changed so drastically? And how had such change occurred without him even noticing or caring? Through the haze of his own sudden existential crisis, he sees the disbelieving pout marring his beautiful nephilim’s face. It finally manages to pull him out of his own head.

“Alexander,” he attempts, only to look away when the shadowhunter’s imploring, searching gaze becomes too heavy for him. He has to take a deep breath past the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. The words he needs to say are right there, wedged just beneath his clavicle. He can feel how they build up under his ribcage, threatening to tear him apart. He recognizes that they’re something Alec deserves to hear; and – beyond that – they’re something that he _wants_ to share, for perhaps the first time in his life.

“I spent centuries always trying to chase the next high,” Magnus admits, voice a mere whisper between them. It’s only because Alec is curled up right next to him that the shadowhunter can even hear. “Always seeking out some oblivion to lose myself in, to try and make the years go by a little bit easier. Alcohol, drugs, sex. Any bit of temporary consolation I could find. There are entire decades that I can’t remember because I was too drunk or too high or, hell, both at the same time.

“I was lonely, and miserable, and empty. I tried to fill that with physical pleasures without ever even realizing what was wrong. All that time, I thought that I was happy. I wasn’t, not even the slightest bit, but I could fool myself into believing it. And for most of my, admittedly long, life that seemed like it was enough.”

Here, he has to stop. He can feel the tears building at the back of his eyes, can feel the tingle indicating that his glamour has long-since dropped. But there is no shame for it, not for the tears or his cat eyes, not when Alec’s fingers are skimming over his cheeks and brushing away his fears, equal parts calloused from war and tender from love. Somewhere along the lines, they have drawn impossibly closer to each other, until Magnus can no longer really tell where he ends and Alexander begins. He can’t recall when his darling shadowhunter stopped being the _comforted_ and started being the _comforter_. He supposes it doesn’t quite matter.

Again, he takes a fortifying breath to steady his rabbiting heart. Magnus has no clue why it’s so difficult to get such words out, or how Alexander always manages to make it look so easy. But he forces himself to meet the younger man’s hazel eyes, infinitely adoring and understanding.

“And then I met you.” The words are far easier to say than Magnus expects. He remembers Alec saying them back at the Hunter’s Moon, before either of them could even fathom just how much they would come to mean to each other. “And I realized that I _wasn’t_ happy, that drugs and alcohol and sex and partying just made me more miserable. Because I was missing out on living my life and getting to know people for more than just one night. Because I was missing out on _love._ ”

Alec’s eyes widen and his body sags in surprise, as if he can never quite grasp how impossibly Magnus loves him, as if he can’t even begin to understand just how much he has changed Magnus, inevitably and irrevocably. Magnus doesn’t give him the chance to try and downplay his own significance in Magnus’ life; between one breath and the next, he’s leaning forward and brushing his lips against Alexander’s. It’s wonderfully chaste, a gentle press of their lips and noses and foreheads, and Magnus can’t help but think how foolishly a younger him would have mocked such love as childish. He knows better now.

“While I do still indulge in dancing and drinking and, occasionally, drugs – completely legal ones, _of course_ ,” he emphasizes just to draw an exasperated grin from his Alexander, “they only give me a temporary sort of pleasure. But spending time with you, whether it’s playing board games or rock climbing, brings me joy like nothing else. And it’s not something temporary; the joy I get from loving you, from being loved by you, is something that will last me forever, Alexander.”

Magic or no, Magnus’ makeup is absolutely ruined at this point and some self-conscious part of him thinks that he must look like a teary-eyed raccoon. But Alec isn’t exactly in any position to comment, not as he’s hiccoughing over his own barely held back sobs. Their limbs tangle further and Magnus doesn’t think either of them are getting up anytime soon. It certainly isn’t any sweat off of his back, not when Alec’s head is tucked under his chin and his arms are tight around Magnus.

“Besides, darling, anyone who tries to say that you’re _boring_ clearly hasn’t seen you rambling about the nuances of thirteenth-century Persian poetry after downing seven strawberry daiquiris,” Magnus adds, not even attempting to hide the smirk that curls his lips.

Alec groans at what must certainly be nothing more than a hazy recollection, but willingly huffs out an only slightly aggrieved laugh. “That was _one_ time,” he grouses.

Magnus hums. “Once in Malta. And that time in Seoul. And again in Sydney. I daresay, Alexander, you must have been a literature professor in some past life.”

The shadowhunter playfully swats at him, but Magnus can see the brilliant blush that burns on his cheeks. “Like you’re one to talk, Mr. ‘All These Artifacts Are Actually Mine and Now I’m Going to Steal Them from the Smithsonian,’” Alec grumbles.

They both laugh, but eventually fall into an easy silence. Magnus fills the time by running his fingers through Alec’s hair, and his darling Alexander reciprocates by smoothing small circles against his back. Everything seems to calm down, and Magnus has long-since decided to screw his plans to visit Pandemonium, but Alec still seems to be hanging on to one final strand of defiance.

“So,” the dear boy finally breaks, peeking his head up just enough that their eyes can meet. “You don’t think I’m boring?”

Magnus doesn’t even try to stop his smile. “Not for a single second, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was only supposed to be like 2,000 words. Why am I completely incapable of making things short?
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this little one-shot! Please leave me a comment and kudos!
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
